


Prompt Collections: The peculiar case of Sherlock Holmes

by spinningelectro



Category: Elementary (TV), Miss Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, I dunno what happened, Multi, Other, Prompt Fic, gonna be very messy, please bear with me, update by mood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 01:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15522714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinningelectro/pseuds/spinningelectro
Summary: Just me lying in bed thinking: what if, all the Sherlock Holmes"es" I know rejoiced together in one single plot? :D





	Prompt Collections: The peculiar case of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This is one small part of the prompt collection. In this part, you'll find the Sherlock Holmes (played by Robert Downey Jr.) and his trusty Doctor (by Jude Law), being miraculously transfered to London of 2012, presumably belonged to the settings of Sherlock series of BBC.

“… --lmes! Holmes! Holmes, wake up!”

After the daze, the pain came to his slowly awakening mind, shot through every neuron and traveled across his spines to his damaged limbs, shocked him like electric. Sherlock Holmes awoke to a panicking Watson, one hand cradling the back of his head and the other putting pressure on his shoulder wound; _hell it burns._ They were basically torn and beaten, clothes were like rugs, yet his state of health was the last thing concerning our great detective at the moment, because even though in his daze Holmes could realize that they were not at the place they should be.

“My dear Watson, did we not catch the train we should have?”

“I’m afraid so, Holmes,” His doctor helped him up, pulling his wife-made scarf off his neck to fasten a tie around his friend's bleeding wound, “The bloody hell are we?”

Holmes gathered the left of his strength to give his surroundings an introspective onceover. None of this seemed right, none of this his logic could have processed; wherever it was they were supposed to be out in the forest near Switzerland’s borderline, yet now they were indoors. It was highly confusing where they were staying at, on a concrete platform sitting in between two set of railways, seemingly looked like a station with never-before-seen lighting system; some sorts of glowing tubes equipped with a wired frame sticking up the ceiling. Holmes squinted tire out of his eyes and flinched when the pain stung, his eyes flickered from the metal benches to some sorts of peculiar machines over those walls, and then up the glowing boards hanging in front of the rails, letters slowly lining on those boards in form of glittering spots of light. FARRINGDON, it said.

“Where the hell is this…”

It would be remarked as the first time ever, Watson had ever seen Holmes so clueless and appalled.

There was a rattling noise echoing from afar, startled them to take cover near one of the poll. The light was utmost unusual, they deemed, they were white and cold, brighter than any candlelight, piercing the darkness of the tube along with that wrecking noise. They looked with utter surprise as “the train” arrived, surely surpassed any of their expectation of a dull, heavy, steamy locomotive.

“Dear God a giant white snake,” cried Watson, which granted him an eye-rolling from Holmes.

“A slick head can fool anyone Watson, but I’m sure those ladies and gents couldn’t possibly walk out alive from a snake’s stomach.”

Indeed so, what would seem like doors opened on the side, and people came rushing out, in absolutely ridiculous attire – not even a man of lower-class would dress like so, seemingly incredibly light and the number of layers were reduced to the minimum and, if they dared say, should a man of proper occupation have that much skin exposed? Well, their outrageous fashion could be discussed later, for now our dear Watson had quickly got on his feet and left his spot, approached the commuters and called for help. Oh poor doctor for how those people treated him, like a theatrical actor, or worse, a beggar, which would rather seem fair considering how dirty and miserable they looked. But to hell with that, Holmes needed medical help, one of his shoulder was pierced by a rusty hook, and they both suffered the high risk of infection and tetanus from these splinter of woods scratching against their bodies, some perhaps still stuck inside; and they were in desperate need for help. But it seemed to be all in vain, he called out to a young lad a “Can you help me?” and got ignored. Enraged, you would say, our doctor caught a suited gentleman by his shoulder and pulled him back, with all strength granted to a formal military corporal, “Please sir, can you tell us where we are? Is there a doctor here, we’re wounded.”

The other man shook him off with a furious frown and straightened his suit rather violently, “Have you completely lost your mind?! It’s London, and St. Barts is right up ahead, you junkies!”

 _London, he says?_ And Holmes swallowed his nerves, several possibilities were then dismissed from his deductions, and that exclamation from the angry man had just given proof to one of his wildest theory. Through his blurry vision Holmes was sure he would need to jump in between Watson and the gent before that bastard got that punch he deserved; but thank God, a young lady saved him that effort. Slim, honey brown hair, fair features, bright eyes.

“I’m a doctor,” said she, “Sorts of. I can help you, whoever you may be. What’s up with the costume?”

“Costume?” Watson had been through all the most peculiar cases with his dear friend Sherlock Holmes, but nothing could compare to their turnouts today. Not even the detective himself could cope with this bizarre sudden change of environment, or maybe he just had not tried. Either way, no one, absolutely ever, had called his choice of wardrobe a “costume” in such fashion. And should she ever be proud with what she’d put on? Clearly not a choice of any lady, he supposed, a rare gout in sweater mixed with plain blouse underneath a thick beige manteau. _Oh my John Watson where’s your manners_ , no gentleman would judge a lady’s attire. “Never mind, my friend and I are terribly injured, we need medical treatment.”

She glanced over Watson’s shoulder to Holmes with a horrid expression, judging from the amount of blood covering his body, even for a doctor it would just be fair to be horrified. What should seem to be inappropriate was probably the partly weirdly intrigued expression presented on her face. Such a respectable woman, Holmes remarked mentally, to approach him without hesitations and inspect his state of health, “Molly Hooper. And you are?” asked she.

“Why my manners. I’m terribly sorry, the situation got the better of me. My name is Sherlock Holmes, dear girl, and you’ve just encountered my associate Dr. John Watson.”

A sudden shock flashed through her face, and Molly Hooper’s brilliant hazel eyes widened. Her hands stopped, and her lips shut tight into a thin line before she let out a soft chuckle, a chuckle of disbelief, which almost ridiculed them, “Beg your pardon, miss Hooper, what seems so funny?”

“You are sir,” the young Molly Hooper let her laugh slip, “How you claim yourself, dress yourself, how you talk uh—You, you’re not Sherlock Holmes, I know him, and you’re not.” She turned back at the utterly appalled doctor, continued in her humoured fashion, “At least a moustache suits you more, doctor.”

Watson could swear, that even in the most hazardous of time, at where deemed utmost hopeless, even when facing the notorious professor Moriarty himself, he had never seen his dear friend so pale, so shocked and the most unexpectedly, lost; and himself all the same. They were in the city they’d known their whole life and now they could hardly recognize it. They had nothing on them except for their names and titles, and now it would seem they were, also, unrecognized as well. The doctor looked at the detective and saw terror in reply, flashing through his bloodlessly white face before Holmes himself collapsed in blood loss and exhaustion.

Molly’s laugh ceased then, “Oh dear, give me a hand.” And Watson came rushing, throwing his friend’s uninjured arm over his own shoulders and hoisted him up, following Molly quick footsteps, leading them up the stairs into the very busy streets of London, which however shameful he must admit this London was entirely unfamiliar. People came rushing in and out remarkably gigantic building with their strange choice of clothing and accessories, seemingly strangely attached to a small electrical device – they held them in hands all the time. Street blocks were entirely unrecognizable, vehicles unexplainable, minus the horses and plus with the… _cars_? – in various shape, size and colours, less complicated in machinery and fumes emission, he supposed. Dear Lord, Watson prayed from within.

“Quickly.” Molly Hooper urged and ushered them across the streets, “Your friend is in severe condition, _doctor,_ ” Mocking. “Come, St. Barts is right ahead of us now.”

 


End file.
